tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58552639046716379102024-02-06T18:45:00.545-08:00C'mon And Join Our Tomorrow's Partybealdohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14422558983763821299noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855263904671637910.post-15362709019747668962010-03-19T04:14:00.000-07:002010-03-19T04:18:02.175-07:00Couchant d'hiver<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijJbNPIF9gS7vsG5AZLh2sDz2wt8Mh2VqpEhioCTeffD27eONpnUV0EgSMSQNA_K8gioCOMnFDUFUCiEK21OpEudjer9G7-KkuBSgWs-SsiqgwGKm7u1KJUnSYJuekP3OsEKXAbjNcVcwU/s1600-h/battleship_island_03.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijJbNPIF9gS7vsG5AZLh2sDz2wt8Mh2VqpEhioCTeffD27eONpnUV0EgSMSQNA_K8gioCOMnFDUFUCiEK21OpEudjer9G7-KkuBSgWs-SsiqgwGKm7u1KJUnSYJuekP3OsEKXAbjNcVcwU/s320/battleship_island_03.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450302492462024306" /></a><br />to Mark Linkous & Alex Chilton<br /><br />Sparklehorse. <a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?ebotzw2z3xl">Homecoming Queen</a><br /><br />Big Star. <a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?gc3ymlnwyyo">Holocaust</a><br /><br /><br />Quel couchant douloureux nous avons eu ce soir !<br />Dans les arbres pleurait un vent de désespoir, Abattant du bois mort dans les feuilles rouillées. À travers le lacis des branches dépouillées<br />Dont l'eau-forte sabrait le ciel bleu-clair et froid, Solitaire et navrant, descendait l'astre-roi. Ô Soleil ! l'autre été, magnifique en ta gloire,<br />Tu sombrais, radieux comme un grand Saint-Ciboire, Incendiant l'azur ! À présent, nous voyons Un disque safrané, malade, sans rayons, Qui meurt à l'horizon balayé de cinabre, Tout seul, dans un décor poitrinaire et macabre, Colorant faiblement les nuages<br />La Terre a fait son temps ; ses reins n'en peuvent plus. Et ses pauvres enfants, grêles, chauves et blêmes D'avoir trop médité les éternels problèmes, Grelottants et voûtés sous le poids des foulards Au gaz jaune et mourant des brumeux boulevards, D'un ex<br />Riant amèrement, quand des femmes enceintes Défilent, étalant leurs ventres et leurs seins, Dans l'orgueil bestial des esclaves divins...<br /><br />Ouragans inconnus des débâcles finales, Accourez ! déchaînez vos trombes de rafales l Prenez ce globe immonde et poussif ! balayez Sa lèpre de cités et ses fils ennuyés !<br />Et jetez ses débris sans nom au noir immense ! Et qu'on ne sache rien dans la grande innocence Des soleils éternels, des étoiles d'amour, De ce Cerveau pourri qui fut la Terre, un jour.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Jules Laforgue</span>bealdohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14422558983763821299noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855263904671637910.post-50119280997260364042010-03-13T08:08:00.000-08:002010-03-13T08:20:23.774-08:00La fuite de la lune<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEBzVfaraLzpc1rH55B4ujXD6kpTd3RnN2wSOR8JMytC62Zvqa0cuqTZJeOgXILZvibsHmQHzYvaEvlNiV99QiUC1mwpzmDWSJpRpdRzzUe2Q7SZZdeuEuVWNymk2SQlPOdZY9hvG79nFb/s1600-h/Set1_photo13.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEBzVfaraLzpc1rH55B4ujXD6kpTd3RnN2wSOR8JMytC62Zvqa0cuqTZJeOgXILZvibsHmQHzYvaEvlNiV99QiUC1mwpzmDWSJpRpdRzzUe2Q7SZZdeuEuVWNymk2SQlPOdZY9hvG79nFb/s320/Set1_photo13.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448151245069547954" /></a><br /><br />Geoff Mendelson & The Spasmodic Joy: <a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?uhywm0izkdj">Hello</a><br /><br />To outer senses there is peace,<br />A dreamy peace on either hand,<br />Deep silence in the shadowy land,<br />Deep silence where the shadows cease.<br /> <br />Save for a cry that echoes shrill<br />From some lone bird disconsolate;<br />A corncrake calling to its mate;<br />The answer from the misty hill.<br /> <br />And suddenly the moon withdraws<br />Her sickle from the lightening skies,<br />And to her sombre cavern flies,<br />Wrapped in a veil of yellow gauze. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Oscar Wilde</span><br /><br />photo: Peter Sutherlandbealdohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14422558983763821299noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855263904671637910.post-33716106977086390172010-03-13T03:56:00.000-08:002010-03-13T04:01:22.669-08:00Harmonie du soir<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR7Xthn-cuHEo1m7hfmvnCMtGoGHnHlmFVJmZzqIugtV-8w6Y47PV-qRiIKmgmMypLSlZVzIdeeqpSnRvxTpzIdlvZAfFk6bVSD9PKwUUWiBwSHw8yw9DYBIowXi88gpla5PwbGUoZ9LoX/s1600-h/xMarks7-600x391.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 209px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR7Xthn-cuHEo1m7hfmvnCMtGoGHnHlmFVJmZzqIugtV-8w6Y47PV-qRiIKmgmMypLSlZVzIdeeqpSnRvxTpzIdlvZAfFk6bVSD9PKwUUWiBwSHw8yw9DYBIowXi88gpla5PwbGUoZ9LoX/s320/xMarks7-600x391.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448086627548338578" /></a><br /><br /><br />Pantha du Prince / Panda Bear: <a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?2awgrlmmmzw">Stick To My Side (Four Tet version)</a><br /><br /><br />Voici venir les temps où vibrant sur sa tige<br />Chaque fleur s'évapore ainsi qu'un encensoir ;<br />Les sons et les parfums tournent dans l'air du soir ;<br />Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige !<br /><br />Chaque fleur s'évapore ainsi qu'un encensoir ;<br />Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu'on afflige ;<br />Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige !<br />Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir.<br /><br />Le violon frémit comme un coeur qu'on afflige,<br />Un coeur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir !<br />Le ciel est triste et beau comme un grand reposoir ;<br />Le soleil s'est noyé dans son sang qui se fige.<br /><br />Un coeur tendre, qui hait le néant vaste et noir,<br />Du passé lumineux recueille tout vestige !<br />Le soleil s'est noyé dans son sang qui se fige...<br />Ton souvenir en moi luit comme un ostensoir !<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Charles Baudelaire</span>bealdohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14422558983763821299noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855263904671637910.post-58075351244489847252010-03-12T11:21:00.000-08:002010-03-13T07:54:55.579-08:00Introduction<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfIL19wpeog6fkUK1W-GMMLLiRRXRGbhaZpwLHLgD9z3jOWKg0GRZc-YcvVlUj5u2cgPuNEftko2L3flj_1CK1ZYZZv8FTECAXkaIu0wIPHAPaTBk5rA9RdDfpGoprgpaACWaeXFzzekhL/s1600-h/081105_infocus7.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 309px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfIL19wpeog6fkUK1W-GMMLLiRRXRGbhaZpwLHLgD9z3jOWKg0GRZc-YcvVlUj5u2cgPuNEftko2L3flj_1CK1ZYZZv8FTECAXkaIu0wIPHAPaTBk5rA9RdDfpGoprgpaACWaeXFzzekhL/s320/081105_infocus7.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447830538112163922" /></a><br />
<br />
Tom Rapp: <a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?yaminigmadg">Fourth Day Of July</a><br />
<br />
Piping down the valleys wild,<br />
Piping songs of pleasant glee,<br />
On a cloud I saw a child,<br />
And he laughing said to me:<br />
<br />
'Pipe a song about a Lamb!'<br />
So I piped with merry cheer.<br />
'Piper, pipe that song again.'<br />
So I piped: he wept to hear.<br />
<br />
'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;<br />
Sing thy songs of happy cheer!'<br />
So I sung the same again,<br />
While he wept with joy to hear.<br />
<br />
'Piper, sit thee down and write<br />
In a book, that all may read.'<br />
So he vanished from my sight;<br />
And I plucked a hollow reed,<br />
<br />
And I made a rural pen,<br />
And I stained the water clear,<br />
And I wrote my happy songs<br />
Every child may joy to hear. <br />
<br />
<b>William Blake</b>bealdohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14422558983763821299noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855263904671637910.post-62268158545273310382010-03-12T11:13:00.000-08:002010-03-13T07:55:18.497-08:00Enfance<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgpcAAnPCHkw0GPAVEK6L_IwoUlacbpKhmjGBxbb3hBOGIcPMH52kMU4o3c1Q4xCyTX9MJjpR2CeWA804nhzyS7eYmcVA8hZdenNErmAIvfG7EBXBrC6g0nLOG4yno-DACE9idkv8NTxri/s1600-h/personal_g2_09-600x380.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 202px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgpcAAnPCHkw0GPAVEK6L_IwoUlacbpKhmjGBxbb3hBOGIcPMH52kMU4o3c1Q4xCyTX9MJjpR2CeWA804nhzyS7eYmcVA8hZdenNErmAIvfG7EBXBrC6g0nLOG4yno-DACE9idkv8NTxri/s320/personal_g2_09-600x380.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447828225656303986" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
Bonobo: <a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?2mqti5iwmjm">Sleepy Seven</a><br />
<br />
Au jardin des cyprès je filais en rêvant,<br />
Suivant longtemps des yeux les flocons que le vent<br />
Prenait à ma quenouille, ou bien par les allées <br />
Jusqu'au bassin mourant que pleurent les saulaies<br />
Je marchais à pas lents, m'arrêtant aux jasmins,<br />
Me grisant du parfum des lys, tendant les mains<br />
Vers les iris fées gardés par les grenouilles.<br />
Et pour moi les cyprès n'étaient que des quenouilles,<br />
Et mon jardin, un monde où je vivais exprès<br />
Pour y filer un jour les éternels cyprès.<br />
<b><br />
Guillaume Apollinaire</b>bealdohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14422558983763821299noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855263904671637910.post-49746921514194456352010-03-12T10:59:00.000-08:002010-03-13T07:55:38.592-08:00Ne connait pas ses classiques<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQJffhqVTVHhCVvvQQ9Wmo-hW0DC0hEDKcxW448rzaevHlIo_OqcTM6ozZla5htPKPhOh4JCK6tNA-4ijKCFmmler2fRA_BKgW4cP0e6VHihP99HKchGuoXwE2W-t3TM-eajXwil3jHu3u/s1600-h/hello-600x397.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQJffhqVTVHhCVvvQQ9Wmo-hW0DC0hEDKcxW448rzaevHlIo_OqcTM6ozZla5htPKPhOh4JCK6tNA-4ijKCFmmler2fRA_BKgW4cP0e6VHihP99HKchGuoXwE2W-t3TM-eajXwil3jHu3u/s320/hello-600x397.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447825751123820258" /></a><br />
<br />
M. Ward: <a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?jw1m1uglt20">Fours Hours In Washington</a><br />
<br />
<br />
cela fait 3 nuits<br />
ou 3 jours<br />
que je ne dors pas<br />
et le blanc de mes yeux<br />
est tout rouge ;<br />
je ris dans le<br />
miroir,<br />
et je n’ai pas cessé<br />
d’écouter le tic-tac<br />
du réveil<br />
et le gaz<br />
de mon radiateur<br />
diffuse<br />
une odeur lourde,<br />
épaisse et<br />
chaude, parcourue<br />
par le bruit<br />
des voitures,<br />
des voitures suspendues<br />
comme des décorations<br />
dans ma tête, mais<br />
j’ai lu<br />
les classiques<br />
et sur mon divan<br />
dort une pute<br />
imbibée de vin<br />
qui pour la première<br />
fois<br />
a entendu<br />
la 9e de Beethoven,<br />
et lasse,<br />
s’est endormie<br />
en écoutant<br />
poliment.<br />
<br />
imagine-toi un peu, papa, a-t-elle dit,<br />
avec ton cerveau<br />
tu pourrais être le premier homme<br />
à copuler<br />
sur la lune.<br />
<b><br />
Charles Bukowski</b>bealdohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14422558983763821299noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855263904671637910.post-28371292139342067512010-03-12T10:34:00.000-08:002010-03-13T07:55:53.977-08:00Ode To Indolence<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBDagQB3DNypk2Ivj5jgkG6WW_ZiBu1j9iF2fXresynFOvdVNEy4tjgXRCzVheynG-WiHXaBhyphenhyphenadig3ZQt2J2lWY7bDVWvb_nylkMQIcHEZjs4rohVF7Oe40eksMfdFLJRt6Ae8YW9iQRK/s1600-h/xMarks9-600x391.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 209px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBDagQB3DNypk2Ivj5jgkG6WW_ZiBu1j9iF2fXresynFOvdVNEy4tjgXRCzVheynG-WiHXaBhyphenhyphenadig3ZQt2J2lWY7bDVWvb_nylkMQIcHEZjs4rohVF7Oe40eksMfdFLJRt6Ae8YW9iQRK/s320/xMarks9-600x391.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447818620086696850" /></a><br />
<br />
Radical Face : <a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?mnywoqjtmnw">Welcome Home, Son<br />
</a><br />
<br />
'They toil not, neither do they spin.'<br />
<br />
One morn before me were three figures seen,<br />
With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced;<br />
And one behind the other stepp'd serene,<br />
In placid sandals, and in white robes graced:<br />
They pass'd, like figures on a marble urn,<br />
When shifted round to see the other side;<br />
They came again; as when the urn once more<br />
Is shifted round, the first seen shades return;<br />
And they were strange to me, as may betide<br />
With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore.<br />
<br />
How is it, shadows, that I knew ye not?<br />
How came ye muffled in so hush a masque?<br />
Was it a silent deep-disguised plot<br />
To steal away, and leave without a task<br />
My idle days? Ripe was the drowsy hour;<br />
The blissful cloud of summer-indolence<br />
Benumb'd my eyes; my pulse grew less and less;<br />
Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath no flower.<br />
O, why did ye not melt, and leave my sense<br />
Unhaunted quite of all but - nothingness? <br />
<br />
<b>John Keats</b>bealdohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14422558983763821299noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855263904671637910.post-29372114825956250992009-07-16T12:31:00.000-07:002009-07-16T12:39:04.567-07:00The Torn (extract)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMVS78Ur-N1qJRpw3Nenxnfaf89P2JNkFXr-ZzKhaUgOsWNvR9jtJvIR_oO7MK6nE5XROkSYfeCUsnsvsf-a0KYecZb0nd5YJ-FQItGFpgUa8bNPPEQfRpgbFYpCPBQ4KRMp29ievgbOds/s1600-h/mapplethorpe2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 301px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMVS78Ur-N1qJRpw3Nenxnfaf89P2JNkFXr-ZzKhaUgOsWNvR9jtJvIR_oO7MK6nE5XROkSYfeCUsnsvsf-a0KYecZb0nd5YJ-FQItGFpgUa8bNPPEQfRpgbFYpCPBQ4KRMp29ievgbOds/s320/mapplethorpe2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359144197063065570" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">There is a thorn; it looks so old,<br />In truth you'd find it hard to say,<br />How it could ever have been young,<br />It looks so old and grey.<br />Not higher than a t-year's child,<br />It stands erect this aged thorn;<br />No leaves it has, no thorny points;<br />It is a mass of knotted joints,<br />A wretched thing forlorn.<br />It stands erect, and like a stone<br />With lichens it is overgrown. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Collerirge & Worsworth</span><br /><br />Lisa Germano. <a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?sharekey=67272fc83f8d3521d8f14848abf485dd063fba2078e02a9d5be6ba49b5870170">Candy</a><br /><br />photo: Robert Mapplethorpebealdohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14422558983763821299noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855263904671637910.post-53568226747855946732009-07-16T12:12:00.000-07:002009-07-16T12:17:08.133-07:00Toi La Seule<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ7P4t4fWkxBBkxTQ1QEnHVqOU0tuolb4tVA8-CH2_8Jg_rv1wo0oSdnRIlIj3-duXSobcpi7F2f4xQMHxd8UDmfkoRU5itU_tiyW4-Uva2GQ7QKlZfsUcaVaef_AWcyc_PaEuCPb745r_/s1600-h/DSCN2674.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ7P4t4fWkxBBkxTQ1QEnHVqOU0tuolb4tVA8-CH2_8Jg_rv1wo0oSdnRIlIj3-duXSobcpi7F2f4xQMHxd8UDmfkoRU5itU_tiyW4-Uva2GQ7QKlZfsUcaVaef_AWcyc_PaEuCPb745r_/s320/DSCN2674.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359139121900440050" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Toi la seule et j'entends les herbes de ton rire<br />Toi c'est la tête qui t'enlève<br />Et du haut des dangers de mort<br />Sur les globes brouillés de pluie des vallées<br />Sous la lumière lourde sous le ciel de terre<br />Tu enfantes la chute.<br /><br />Les oiseaux ne sont plus un abri suffisant<br />Ni la paresse ni la fatigue<br />Le souvenir des bois et des ruisseaux fragiles<br />Au matin des caprices<br />Au matin des caresses visibles<br />Au grand matin de l'absence la chute.<br />Les barques de tes yeux s'égarent<br />Dans la dentelle des disparitions<br />Le gouffre est dévoilé aux autres de l'éteindre<br />Les ombres que tu crées n'ont pas droit à la nuit. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Paul Eluard</span><br /><br />Fall Of Saigon. <a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?sharekey=67272fc83f8d3521d8f14848abf485dda25b674075f52883b8eada0a1ae8665a">So Long</a>bealdohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14422558983763821299noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855263904671637910.post-6199365163257961372009-07-16T11:54:00.000-07:002009-07-16T12:04:37.170-07:00Spleen<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzgB7UgxjZl_Q41TLWmRBCTOCGLM-ibM5660-HS-uQGmSBUUdprk0CJunjNC1mLNbOi39lyDjK_PEBZbnMPPo50ETGH_o5x_SHaHRevCAfoyBxWfMzGB0-SKU8UbwcElrESdgwYGkBmoj5/s1600-h/6373_1203413204597_1206607369_599552_140307_n-pola.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 263px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzgB7UgxjZl_Q41TLWmRBCTOCGLM-ibM5660-HS-uQGmSBUUdprk0CJunjNC1mLNbOi39lyDjK_PEBZbnMPPo50ETGH_o5x_SHaHRevCAfoyBxWfMzGB0-SKU8UbwcElrESdgwYGkBmoj5/s320/6373_1203413204597_1206607369_599552_140307_n-pola.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359133913504972626" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Tout m'ennuie aujourd'hui. J'écarte mon rideau,<br />En haut ciel gris rayé d'une éternelle pluie,<br />En bas la rue où dans une brume de suie<br />Des ombres vont, glissant parmi les flaques d'eau.<br /><br />Je regarde sans voir fouillant mon vieux cerveau,<br />Et machinalement sur la vitre ternie<br />Je fais du bout du doigt de la calligraphie.<br />Bah ! sortons, je verrai peut-être du nouveau.<br /><br />Pas de livres parus. Passants bêtes. Personne.<br />Des fiacres, de la boue, et l'averse toujours...<br />Puis le soir et le gaz et je rentre à pas lourds...<br /><br />Je mange, et baille, et lis, rien ne me passionne...<br />Bah ! Couchons-nous. - Minuit. Une heure. Ah ! chacun dort !<br />Seul, je ne puis dormir et je m'ennuie encor.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Jules Laforge</span><br /><br />Karl Blau. <a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?sharekey=67272fc83f8d3521d8f14848abf485dd1a2ffa39e7f8b84d5be6ba49b5870170">Make Love That Lasts</a>bealdohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14422558983763821299noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855263904671637910.post-14206207786922269962009-07-16T11:44:00.000-07:002009-07-16T11:54:04.581-07:00Soleils Couchants<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ZrFPwETHUS7jWXwdaxEkW360lnH3XUUUblqhRxcnL66HLxwxzRIrxej0YETA-ECoz69MaHqu5kcwS3QCdi7NYwmiIYGTfhVMoY8sAa_ZIC_kB03fV1V1HG-qEFEXsN0gb_AHXFxwI0u4/s1600-h/nus-lumieres-05.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8ZrFPwETHUS7jWXwdaxEkW360lnH3XUUUblqhRxcnL66HLxwxzRIrxej0YETA-ECoz69MaHqu5kcwS3QCdi7NYwmiIYGTfhVMoY8sAa_ZIC_kB03fV1V1HG-qEFEXsN0gb_AHXFxwI0u4/s320/nus-lumieres-05.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359132264318119922" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Une aube affaiblie<br />Verse par les champs<br />La mélancolie<br />Des soleils couchants.<br /><br />La mélancolie<br />Berce de doux chants<br />Mon coeur qui s'oublie<br />Aux soleils couchants.<br /><br />Et d'étranges rêves,<br />Comme des soleils<br />Couchants, sur les grèves,<br />Fantômes vermeils,<br /><br />Défilent sans trêves,<br />Défilent, pareils<br />A de grands soleils<br />Couchants sur les grèves.</span><br /><br />Paul Verlaine<br /><br />Sunburned Hand Of The Man. <a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?sharekey=67272fc83f8d3521d8f14848abf485ddf8fa0790351e1c1db8eada0a1ae8665a">Yes, Your Highness</a><br /><br />photo: Local MacFlybealdohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14422558983763821299noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855263904671637910.post-27705332645035114742009-07-16T11:33:00.000-07:002009-07-16T11:42:30.986-07:00Bowery Blues (extract)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7C2O6kxjE8doZqRKcGrNGhgSKPohoRk0F5TFl6CzZbGhr-q36eMmxa1A_iBI_T6K54HT01T2RJuGwi1xhzreWgRge2IRq5HIr4AjONUvwiaY_JXreGbJIDOHXcjssb78iyVQSeqswEQgI/s1600-h/en-vrac-229.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7C2O6kxjE8doZqRKcGrNGhgSKPohoRk0F5TFl6CzZbGhr-q36eMmxa1A_iBI_T6K54HT01T2RJuGwi1xhzreWgRge2IRq5HIr4AjONUvwiaY_JXreGbJIDOHXcjssb78iyVQSeqswEQgI/s320/en-vrac-229.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359129930906410018" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The story of man<br />Makes me sick<br />Inside, outside,<br />I don't know why<br />Something so conditional<br />And all talk<br />Should hurt me so.<br /><br />I am hurt<br />I am scared<br />I want to live<br />I want to die<br />I don't know<br />Where to turn<br />In the Void<br />And when<br />To cut<br />Out</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Jack Kerouac</span><br /><br />John Martyn. <a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?sharekey=67272fc83f8d3521d8f14848abf485ddf6ca3f3baf61c6ff5621d66e282a0ee8">May You Never</a><br /><br />photo: Local MacFlybealdohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14422558983763821299noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855263904671637910.post-40962776399712168802009-07-16T10:51:00.000-07:002009-07-16T11:00:31.687-07:00Happy Is England !<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFmXxgEkVKv5cfiJrLZz1gSnQ-IN1PmPiutuCo4Z9W-IIPXJDoiRiTEkNRtIBWBTet2YNwmL7BsNf0Z27xNqz521dpCql1b2oqFjzdXMUkwJTrDTgHPt_8lgL5uWGkVJD5zczyJ-KN1D2M/s1600-h/P1060269-pola01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 263px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFmXxgEkVKv5cfiJrLZz1gSnQ-IN1PmPiutuCo4Z9W-IIPXJDoiRiTEkNRtIBWBTet2YNwmL7BsNf0Z27xNqz521dpCql1b2oqFjzdXMUkwJTrDTgHPt_8lgL5uWGkVJD5zczyJ-KN1D2M/s320/P1060269-pola01.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359119431209029922" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Happy is England! I could be content<br />To see no other verdure than its own;<br />To feel no other breezes than are blown<br />Through its tall woods with high romances blent:<br />Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment<br />For skies Italian, and an inward groan<br />To sit upon an Alp as on a throne,<br />And half forget what world or worldling meant.<br />Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters;<br />Enough their simple loveliness for me,<br />Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging:<br />Yet do I often warmly burn to see<br />Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing,<br />And float with them about the summer waters.</span> <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">John Keats.</span><br /><br />Del Shannon. <a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?sharekey=67272fc83f8d3521d8f14848abf485ddd03daa4a6c1e956ec95965eaa7bc68bc">Mind Over Matter</a>bealdohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14422558983763821299noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855263904671637910.post-41247106399695566072009-07-16T10:43:00.000-07:002009-07-16T10:51:29.428-07:00Le Tombeau d'Edgar Poe<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigPAAxX0EViKmDnZ0T34u6Zjvj99S23AIhpwWAPiefO3mBSo9-_sJ2TkIRhpUt9Wggn5F7v9JkNxdmZ0Tv4wTi6d5JsCv0B_UfaZtI-PsVBp7r0IBSa0VF94C0d1QO6jxAAP5wj7WVLeEF/s1600-h/canidoide_1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigPAAxX0EViKmDnZ0T34u6Zjvj99S23AIhpwWAPiefO3mBSo9-_sJ2TkIRhpUt9Wggn5F7v9JkNxdmZ0Tv4wTi6d5JsCv0B_UfaZtI-PsVBp7r0IBSa0VF94C0d1QO6jxAAP5wj7WVLeEF/s320/canidoide_1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359115677038005538" /></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Tel qu’en Lui-même enfin l’éternité le change,<br />Le Poête suscite avec un glaive nu<br />Son siècle épouvanté de n’avoir pas connu<br />Que la mort triomphait dans cette voix étrange !<br /><br />Eux, comme un vil sursaut d’hydre oyant jadis l’Ange<br />Donner un sens plus pur aux mots de la tribu<br />Proclamèrent très haut le sortilège bu<br />Dans le flot sans honneur de quelque noir mélange.<br /><br />Du sol et de la nue hostiles, ô grief !<br />Si notre idée avec ne sculpte un bas-relief<br />Dont la tombe de Poe éblouissante s’orne<br /><br />Calme bloc ici-bas chu d’un désastre obscur,<br />Que ce granit du moins montre à jamais sa borne<br />Aux noirs vols du Blasphème épars dans le futur. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Stéphane Mallarmé</span><br /><br />Harry Nillson. <a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?sharekey=67272fc83f8d3521d8f14848abf485dd169aac8e44d6d07a5be6ba49b5870170">Mr. Richland's Favorite Song</a><br /><br />photo: Le Gentil Garçonbealdohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14422558983763821299noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5855263904671637910.post-21514740729974370322009-07-16T10:26:00.001-07:002009-07-16T10:42:01.108-07:00Nocturne<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD4xnaprqLr4J0RS8FPMvXg8t5On-TLJZ3syJLYvUFyLVj5Ck4WGA5ZeobQF1C05x2osjjUdhApjADWrNfjlf9Fc_itmRwj3QlSrSXkReB4IM3zs2_XvyHGjYUEdsvmX-eTxBvyMPS6rx3/s1600-h/2383159678_a7bae15df6_o-pola+(2).jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 263px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD4xnaprqLr4J0RS8FPMvXg8t5On-TLJZ3syJLYvUFyLVj5Ck4WGA5ZeobQF1C05x2osjjUdhApjADWrNfjlf9Fc_itmRwj3QlSrSXkReB4IM3zs2_XvyHGjYUEdsvmX-eTxBvyMPS6rx3/s320/2383159678_a7bae15df6_o-pola+(2).jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5359110827511443234" /></a><br /><br /> <br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />Je songe au vieux Soleil un jour agonisant,<br />Je halète, j'ai peur, pressant du doigt ma tempe,<br />En face, pourtant trois jeunes filles, causant,<br />Brodent à la clarté paisible de la lampe.</span><br /><br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Jules Laforgue</span><br /><br />Vincent Gallo. <a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?sharekey=67272fc83f8d3521d8f14848abf485dd4efc6d6518c24b66ce018c8114394287">Fishing For Some Friend<br /></a><br />photo: extrait de The Brown Bunny (V. Gallo)bealdohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14422558983763821299noreply@blogger.com